Warmth
by Frigonfic
Summary: She wonders what it's like to be warm. What it's like to feel warmth on your skin and warmth in your soul. Maybe there's a reason why that District 8 girl created that fire on the first night of the 74th Hunger Games.


Hullo!

So, I'm still sticking to my 'challenge' in writing back stories for lesser characters in the Hunger Games trilogy.

Not much to say, except if you want more details on the next story, then you should probably read the ending comment at the end of this story.

Well, thanks for click & reading!

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games trilogy belongs to Suzanne Collins.**

* * *

It is cold.

Every day in her life is cold. Cold skies, cold wind, cold metal.

The needle is cold in her hands and the fabric is a silvery cold that sends shivers through her body.

It's all she's ever known. She thinks it's all she ever will know.

But then she's Reaped for the 74th Hunger Games.

And she feels numb, limbs frozen as she walks up into the podium. She's to participate in the fight to her death, and all she feels is this cold emptiness inside of her.

Hollow, like an empty cave in the winter.

Her mother cries, bitter tears because she knows her daughter will not survive. Her emotions are like the wind; all over the place. And they hit her like an icy slap to the face; how little faith her mother has in her.

Her father stands in the corner, face unreadable. When he speaks to her, his voice is clipped and sharp, scratching through her like a piece of ice.

_You must win._

And it's not words of encouragement, a hope, or faith in her.

It's a command.

She's been following his commands her whole life. _Work harder. Quit school. Do a full-time shift at the factory. _

She's never failed a single one of them; following them with her head down and biting retorts in her head that she'll never say.

Her father is frigid when he sends his daughter to the train while her mother cries cold tears into her shoulder.

She stands motionless as she boards the train to her death, still numb and frozen.

She never was thawed.

She's only ever cold.

**.**

Even the Capitol is cold.

District 8 is cold; harsh winds and dropping temperatures every day for the whole year. Her homeland was colourless despite the fact that they shipped bright fabrics to the Capitol.

The Capitol was the exact opposite of District 8, she thought.

But the Capitol was cold as well.

Cold, shiny metal floors. Glossed, icy eyes that were unseeing. Chilly artificial air that was everywhere. Walls that looked and felt like frost.

Weapons that were cool to touch.

Everything sent a shiver up her spine. She can't sleep at night and she can't eat the food placed in front of her.

The thought of her impending death makes her blood freeze, and she can't stop shivering wherever she goes.

You'd think she'd be used to it now, but she doesn't think she ever will.

She's cold.

**.**

She can't handle the weapons, with their icy handles and frigid blades. They weigh her down like rocks and she knows it's useless.

Her death looms over her like a cold shadow, blocking out the weak sunlight in her life. She knows she's going to die. She can't use weapons and she can't run and she can't fight and she can't kill.

Her numbness is long gone.

She's filled with icy terror.

.

The arena is cold, too.

She wonders if there's a place in this world that's warm. She wonders what it feels like to be warm.

The arena is cold; the merciless eyes of the other tributes trapping her like ice. The countdown begins and it takes all of her energy to stay calm and not scream.

Her death is only moments away, being counted out right in front of her.

The cannons ring and she runs as fast as she can away. Away from the cold weapons, the icy glare of the bloodthirsty tributes.

She runs and she doesn't stop, doesn't dare to stop.

She's amazed she makes it this far, even though the Games have only started mere minutes ago.

She runs for as long as she can, and when her legs get tired, she jogs. But it's not long before her stomach growls and the sun goes down, making it impossible to see anything.

She sits down and closes her eyes. The sunlight is gone, and the arena is freezing and dark.

She wonders why everything in her life is cold.

The distant iciness in her home; the way her family sits frigidly at the dinner table in a chilly silence.

The drafty air at the factory, the cold fabric and piercing needle she's forced to use every day for fifteen hours.

The howling wind in her street that never silences, sending shivers through her every time.

And she wonders what it's like to be warm. What it's like to feel warmth on your skin and warmth in your soul.

And she realizes she doesn't have to wonder anymore.

She grabs the leaves and sticks that she never had in District 8, and scrabbles around in the dark for flint. She manages to find two rocks she identifies as flint and she begins to strike them together; an act her father forbid.

_Fire is unruly. Fire is dangerous and fire will get you killed._

But she doesn't care if fire gets her killed because she knows she's going to die anyways. There's no way she could win, and she knew that from the very start.

And she knows that her fire will alert somebody - most likely the Careers - and they will most certainly kill her. She's not stupid. But she'd rather die now, with a fire by her side, with warmth on her fingertips.

She doesn't want to stay in the cold any longer.

The flint creates a spark and ignites the pile of leaves and branches she put together. Soon, she has a fire going.

The flames lick through the night sky, lighting up the arena. And she stares at it because it's like magic, the way the fire dances and lights up the sky so easily.

And the fire's heat radiates to her, and she basks in the warmth. Her hands are close enough for it to burn, but she doesn't care. The warmth fills her, going through her and unfreezing her blood.

She closes her eyes to enjoy the warmth, the first time she's never felt cold in her life. The cold is banished by the fire and she no longer feels the icy hole in her stomach any more.

The warmth is delicious and inviting, and she wants to cry because this is the first time she doesn't feel empty.

But when she opens her eyes, the heat in the air disappears though the fire still blazes.

The icy, cruel eyes of the Careers extinguish all the warmth and bliss she had.

And she knew this was coming, she knew her fire was going to lead them straight to her. But that doesn't mean she's not scared.

But she's not going to run into the cold, either. Now that she's felt warmth, she's not going to flee back to the icy cold that was her life.

Cato's sword cuts through her deep, the blade cold and sharp through her system. She screams, a piercing and shrill scream that echoes throughout the arena.

She falls to the ground, next to the fire, blood seeping out of her stomach like a river.

And the pain rips through her like the fire blazing next to her. It gnaws at her, nothing like the cold she's felt her whole life.

But she thinks she likes the pain better than the cold; at least she's feeling _something._

Tears escape her eyes when the pain intensifies, and she whimpers like a wounded animal. The gaping hole in her stomach twists and turns, sending tremors of pain throughout her body like electric currents.

She wonders how long this pain can last. How long it takes before she dies.

At least the fire's next to her.

She can't see it quite properly anymore, tears - or pain - blocking her vision, making the fire a hazy squiggle of yellow and red.

But she can still feel the warmth; licking at her skin playfully, like a friend she's never had. It comforts her.

The fire's heat is strong and it seems to vanish all traces of cold in her life.

And then a set of blue eyes appear.

They're not an icy blue like her father's. She's surprised. She thought all blue eyes were icy. All the ones she's ever seen in her short life were.

They're a beautiful azure blue - the same type of azure that she's seen on the fabrics back at home. They're warm, too, and she never knew eyes could be warm.

She only thought they could be cold. Cold, icy, and distant. Never warm. Never like the fire next to her.

He becomes clearer in her eyes, and she makes out that he is the boy from District 12, the lover of Fire Girl - that's all they're calling her after the parade and interviews.

He says something, she vaguely distinguishes it as the word _sorry._

She smiles because even his words are warm, like hot chocolate flowing through her body.

_Sorry._

She says that word a lot, but no one's ever said it to her. Until now.

He takes her hand, and his hands are warm, too. She shouldn't be surprised by now, but she still is.

She smiles through the tears and pain and blood. He gives her a small smile back (and you should know by now even his smile is warm) and gives her hand a small squeeze.

She sees the boy's eyes, holds his hands, sees his smile, feels the flames of the fire licking her skin.

It's warm. Everything is warm.

She thinks of Fire Girl and thinks about how lucky she is to have fire, to _be _fire, and to have this beautiful, warm boy.

Peeta's knife slices through her heart. Her cannon rings, loud and clear. He leaves, his duty done. But he never does forget the way the girl smiled blissfully as he held her hand, as he killed her.

She's cold in life.

But in death, she's warm.

* * *

Thanks for reading!

This was a bit of a drabble that I made off the top of my head, kind of in the spur of the moment. I was supposed to be doing homework, but oh well.  
So upon hearing that, sorry if this sucks. It was just an idea that popped up and I decided to write it out inside of working. I might edit this again in the future, but for now I think I'll keep it like this. So basically, this is not one of my best, in my opinion.

Awkward fact: I was cold when I was writing this story.

Well, the next story/one-shot that I'm planning to do is Madge Undersee or Maysilee Donner. I currently don't have any inspiration for either one yet, but I'll keep on thinking of it for the next few days or so.

I also started a Cato/Clove one, but I kind of really hate it right now because it sucks. I might post it after I'm done some major editing, but it's way longer than I intended and it might turn out as a short series rather than an one-shot.

What do you think?

Any questions, comments, feedback? Feel free to leave a review!

Also, if you have any ideas regarding the next one-shot or the (possibly) upcoming Cato/Clove story, please please message me or leave it as a review. I'd greatly love to hear what you guys think about it all. And if you have any characters you'd like to have a one-shot based on, you can leave it as a review or message me, because I'm looking for more characters to write about and some of your suggestions would be awesome.

Thanks for reading once again!


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